Elara
The dungeon air always smelled of rot.
It clung to my nose, damp and heavy, mixed with the sour bite of rusted chains and the faint stench of mold crawling up the stone walls. The torches along the corridor sputtered weakly, their flames shivering as if afraid to burn too bright. Each step I took down the narrow path echoed back, sharp against the silence.
I wasn’t here to pity Isabella. No, pity had long since left me when I watched her crown fall and her mask crack. But still, I came. Something in me wanted to see what a fallen Luna looked like when the walls closed in and power was stripped from her hands.
When I reached her cell, the iron bars cast long shadows across her face. Isabella sat on the filthy straw, her hair tangled and her gown torn at the hem. Yet her eyes gods,
